


Escorte

by saijanbulma



Category: Dragon Ball Super, Dragon Ball Z, Dragonball Super, Dragonball Z
Genre: F/M, Romance, gratuitous and clumsy use of French throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 13:22:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18572341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saijanbulma/pseuds/saijanbulma
Summary: A commission for Xebonystar, as a thank you for being my first supporter on [redacted :P].The story opens on a warm night in Paris. Vegeta watches his woman prepare for a high society soiree with decidedly poor humour.





	Escorte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xebonystar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=xebonystar).



Vegeta adjusted his cravat, trying to wiggle it so it would centre. He refused to untie it for a third time with the woman watching, but the silk was very fine and he couldn’t get the tension right. It wouldn’t be so bad if could have just worn the shirt and suit jacket like he’d suggested. What was the _point_ of a cravat? It didn’t hold your shirt together, it didn’t keep you warm, if anything it was a hazard, a premade noose. He also hated ties with a marked vehemence for the same reasons, and a cravat was just a shitty tie. But Bulma sodding Briefs insisted on these ghastly accoutrements and had told him she’d make his life hell if he didn’t wear it. He believed her.

“Stop fussing with it,” she said without looking up from her makeup table, “you’re making it worse. I’ll fix it in a minute.”

He suppressed a growl and turned on his heel to lean petulantly against the wall. The woman smirked. He swallowed a few choice put downs and glared away from her, inadvertently catching himself in the mirror. The charcoal suit, high-buttoned waistcoat and silk shirt fitted him very well and were elegantly understated; he had to admit, the woman had taste.

“Well? Does this satisfy you?” he grumbled, gesturing at his raiment.

“Un moment, s’il vous plait,” she trilled, putting her eyelashes into that ridiculous contraption and pulling the handles together. Her mouth hung slack as she focussed on the curler. After what seemed like a lifetime to the increasingly bored prince, she put down her instrument of eye torture and turned to face him complacently. “Ah oui, monsieur, tu est tres beau!”

“What?”

“You look very handsome,” she giggled, “even with that grumpy face.”

He sniffed with ill-temper and looked away again.

“What’s wrong with you now, your highness?” she prodded, as good-humoured as he was waspish. “Don’t you like the clothes?”

“The suit is fine,” he admitted, “the cravat is going in the first fire I find.”

“Ha! Good luck finding a lit fire on a summer's evening in France,” she rose, stepping towards him. She discarded the towel she’d been using to protect her dress from makeup spills and his eye was snared by the shimmering fabric of her decolletage. It glittered and caught the light in ways fabric shouldn’t and in doing so highlighted her curves. He looked at the floor, annoyed with himself.

“Why did we have to fly halfway across the damned planet anyway?” he grumbled. “And in the galaxy’s slowest vehicle I might add. If this conference is a celebration of Capsule Corporation then why not just host it there?”

“Because, my darling prince,” she said, her tone silvery and sweet, “this is a spectacle, a show. There must be a central theme of grandeur otherwise what is the very point? This is about status, and there is no destination more drenched in glamour than gay Paris. So do you like my dress?”

He shrugged.

“I saw you looking.”

“It’s fine,” he admitted.

“High praise indeed!”

“You have mirrors!” he snapped, blushing. “You know what you look like.”

“I already know I’m beautiful,” she nodded, her short hair bobbing. He had a mad urge to reach out and touch it, but he resisted. “I want to hear _you_ say it.”

“Over my dead body.”

She leaned in close and slipped a hand inside his jacket. “Oh, that can be arranged. You should never underestimate a genius scientist who knows where you sleep.”

He knew this game, and he also knew there was no winning move for him; if he tried to hold out she would force an embrace on him and declare herself the victor, and similarly would she crown herself if he gave in to his real desires and moved first. There was one option though.

He grabbed her by the waist, trying not to be impressed by the quality of the fabric, and spun her, pushing her hard - but not _too_ hard - against the wall. He pressed his body in close to hers and twined his fingers between hers. She breathed in sharply.

“You are quite possibly the finest female of your species,” he growled, “and you _fucking well know it_.”

“And it doesn’t hurt for you to tell me that sometimes,” she said, recovering herself and smiling coquettishly. “Are you going to kiss me then?”

“Not on your orders,” he replied churlishly, cursing inwardly. She’d out-maneuvered him again.

“You’re so silly,” she chuckled. He was about to retort when she grabbed him by the cravat and crushed his lips against hers. He wanted to pull away, but he overcame it and just allowed himself a moment of weakness and pleasure. Eventually she released him, smiling triumphantly. “That’s what cravats are for.”

“Well if it didn’t need fixing before, it certainly does now,” he grumbled.

“Oh pshaw,” she grinned, her deft hands already dipping into his waistcoat to fetch the ends. “If you had just kissed me when you wanted to-”

“Who says I wanted to?”

“Not everything has to be a competition, Vegeta,” she soothed him, re-tying the cravat expertly. “You should try to relax this evening. Who knows, maybe you could try to have fun.”

“How?”

“Oh I don’t know, champagne, hor d’oeuvres, the satisfaction of being the most handsome man in the room, admiring your delectable wife…” she smirked, “you can find pleasure if you look for it.”

“I think there’s plenty right here,” he whispered, pushing her against the wall again and nuzzling her neck.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, flicking him on the ear and making him dart away in pain. “My lipstick may be smudge proof but my foundation is certainly not, so you will restrict your passionate embraces until _after_ the party, if you please.”

He rubbed his ear sullenly and stalked away from her.

“Mm-hmm…” she said, appraising him. “That tailor did God’s work on that suit. Thank Christ I got the measurements right.”

“Yes, you little sneak,” he crossed his arms, reminded of a previous indignation. “‘New battle suit’ - my ass!”

“Would you have let me measure you up otherwise?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, you left me no choice. If you think about it, it’s really your own fault that I had to lie.”

“My Gods can we just go already?”

“So eager to join the party?”

“Eager to get this shit over with.”

She stepped lightly towards him, her stiletto heels sinking into the deep pile of the carpet and her painted lips curved into a sweeter smile. It was one of her keenest pleasures, to alternately provoke and soothe him, and a game they had both come to enjoy. Being of a naturally taciturn disposition he had no difficulty playing the part, but it was not lost on him how she had turned what any other woman would have found to be deal-breaking character flaws into genuine enjoyment. The more he resisted the softer and sweeter she became, and as her witch’s magic tempted him to relent she turned flinty and sharp. The build-up and release of tension in their daily exchanges were a pleasure he sought out, as did she, and it was when he was the most infuriated that he felt his love for her the most keenly. She was close now, he could smell her and feel her breath on his lips.

“As much as I’m loving this tete a tete,” she said in a low, husky voice that made something twinge low in his belly, “I have an audience to dazzle. And you sir, have a job to do.”

“Which is?” he replied huskily, his lids lowered. He wanted so badly to throw her on the bed and teach her a lesson but knew it would not end well for him if he were to disobey.

“Stand near ‘your Bulma’, look haughty and be handsome,” she kissed him lightly. “I want everyone in that room to see what sort of quality Bulma Briefs demands.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Is that all you love?” she eyed him keenly, smirking. He blushed.

“You know very well,” he grunted.

“I do,” she stepped back lightly, somehow graceful on those knife-points she called shoes. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Champagne, madame?” the garçon offered as they entered.

“Oui, merci,” trilled Bulma, helping herself.

“And monsieur?”

Vegeta curled his lip and tried to ignore him, but Bulma elbowed him sharply.

“No,” he said shortly, adding at a warning glare from Bulma; “thank you.”

The garçon disappeared back into the crowd.

“Be nice to the staff, Vegeta,” she growled. “If half the assholes I invited have come then they're gonna have enough to deal with.”

“If you don't like those people then why invite them?” he asked, his eyes scanning the crowds for danger, an old habit.

“Status,” she lectured, “requires certain sacrifices. I may not like someone personally, but their business could be essential to my operations. And more importantly, this is a celebration of my company and by extension _my_ achievements, and if that happens to annoy certain people then all the better.”

“You want to rub their faces in it?”

“Well of course it sounds childish when you say it like that,” she pouted.

He allowed himself a smirk, and followed her as they stepped fully into the room. Bulma was immediately accosted by her guests, fielding congratulations and questions with coolness and poise. He always admired her dignity, although he especially enjoyed making her leave it on their bedroom floor. As far as he knew, no-one else could make Bulma Briefs beg.

“Where's that sweet boy with the champagne?” a jolly, older woman wrapped in expensive furs guffawed. Bulma pointed him out while another party goer captured her hand for a kiss. Vegeta glowered darkly but didn't comment.

“Oh my lovely, you wouldn't know you've had a baby recently!” a fashionable woman declared, her hand touching Bulma's wrist. “You look just incredible! How _do_ you it?”

“Oh you know,” she laughed, “Pilates, salads, you know.”

“God-magic,” Vegeta muttered into her ear. She hid her smile behind her champagne flute.

“And running a massive corporation at the same time, _and_ heading up research and development,” added another celebrant. “Really, Ms Briefs, you are an inspiration.”

“Thank you, thank you-”

“Well I wouldn’t say ‘running’ precisely.”

A new figure had joined the group, inserting himself between two of Bulma’s admirers. In one hand he twirled a glass of champagne, the other hand rested in the pocket of his navy blazer. He was wearing denim jeans.

“Sure, you do good stuff in your labs, but you don’t really _run_ the company, do you?” he said, his tone just short of sneering. Vegeta felt his blood rise.

“I don’t think I know you,” Bulma replied, her smile cold and fixed. “Should I?”

“Gregory Beck,” he didn’t offer his hand, “BioSense incorporated. CEO.”

“Oh of course, how could I forget. Your company was in the New Yorker recently,” she sipped her champagne.

“Should you be drinking that?” he asked her pointedly. “Don’t you have a baby?”

“She’s with a sitter.”

“I don't let my wife or daughters drink,” he continued, “there's nothing more embarrassing than a drunk woman.”

“Excuse me,” Bulma tried to move past him with cold politeness, but he didn't seem to get the hint.

“What does your father think of you being the face of the company now?” he ploughed on, oblivious to Vegeta's warning glare. “I mean, obviously it helps that you're good looking, for a woman your age. But doesn't it bother him that you get the credit for all of his work?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Vegeta recognised the icy tone, and could see the cracks appearing in Bulma's facade. This cretin, this blustery, late-middle aged man with his balding hair and stale odour of free champagne and cheap cigars, was beginning to get to her. His anger pushed beyond a simmer and bubbled into his throat.

“Well speaking as a CEO who built his own company from the ground-up,” Mr Beck continued fearlessly, “I can tell you it's really not the same thing to have an already successful business just handed to you on a platter.”

That was it. Vegeta had heard quite enough and stepped forward with murderous intent, only to be stopped by Bulma's finely manicured hand on his arm. She squeezed hard and he looked at her in confusion.

“Gregory Beck, Gregory Beck…” she murmured thoughtfully, looking straight at the ingrate, “I know I've heard that name before. Now I _know_ you're not the same Gregory Beck who founded Beck and Sons Logistics-”

“That's my father-”

“Which would make you Gregory Beck Jr, the ‘Son’ who Beck Sr bribed to resign after that fraud scandal a few years ago?”

“That never went to court, and it wasn't a bribe, I had my contractual severance and a loan-”

“A loan you used to set up your own business, and get a leg up on your competition. You poached a lot of research staff with your daddy's money, didn't you?”

“That's just the nature of the business-”

“And so far you've managed to corner the market in…what exactly?”

“We're a leading manufacturer of-”

“Oh that's it, intellectual theft.”

“You don’t-”

“Reverse engineering other company's products, changing them _just enough_ to get a patent and voila,” Bulma sipped her champagne, her brow arched at the paling man. “Rumour has it you hired more lawyers than scientists last year.”

“I do what needs to be done,” he said, pulling himself together. “That's what a real CEO does.”

“Mm-hmm, yes _real_ CEO. ‘Like a boss’, as I believe the kids say now,” she smiled sweetly. “Like the sort of boss who pays for advertorial content in cash-strapped newspapers? Funding for journalistic enterprises isn't what it used to be, so I don't blame the New Yorker for running your piece, but I did cringe for them. Almost as much as I cringe at a fifty-something year old adult man with no sense of Etiquette trying to insult me at my own party while wearing denim jeans at a black collar event in last season's Armani blazer.”

Gregory Beck stared at her, mouth slack.

“My company may have been given to me by my father, but I take my job seriously and part of that is to know everything there is to know about my competition. You made several of my staff very tempting offers, and I was ahead of you. You tried to steal a patent from us last year, and I was ahead of you. And don't think that my knowledge of you and your dealings is any sort of compliment; you are small fry. The fact that I have a near-superhuman memory is the only reason I even recognised your name. You're a toddler splashing about in the deep end pretending to be a big boy, but you know what I am? I am a shark. And you’re not even worth the calories it would cost me to eat you.”

His mouth opened and shut wordlessly.

“And stop swirling that champagne,” she sniffed derisively. “It's not red wine.”

He turned and walked stiffly away. Those of Bulma entourage who hadn’t slipped away from the awkward situation watched his departure.

“Oh, please do enjoy the party, Greg! And give my love to your father if he ever let's you back into the family estate,” she called after him, raising her glass triumphantly.

“My God,” the be-furred woman gaped, putting a hand to her copious bosom. “How mortifying!”

“Quite right, it's something of a faux pas to shake up your champagne,” Bulma agreed with a playful smirk, “it ruins the bubbles.”

 

*     *     *

 

Vegeta stared at her in awe. She was smiling calmly, her confidence and poise more becoming than any expensive gown. She wasn't smug or gloating either, accepting her victory on this unfathomable social battlefield with grace. Gregory Beck was soon lost among the other bodies in the crowd and the conversation had returned to amicable festivity as Bulma continued to hold court.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said eventually, “I want to check in on my babysitter. Be right back, salut!”

A subtle but meaningful glance in his direction was all the instruction he needed to follow her through the crowd, across the ballroom and past the security guards into a restricted area. The restricted area was just a room, well fitted up, with its own balcony and a table heavy laden with food, probably waiting to be wheeled out to the party. Bulma opened the balcony windows wide and breathed the Paris night air.

The moment he shut the door on the crowd behind him he felt a release of pressure, like he’d been unknowingly constricted and was unexpectedly freed. He could breathe easier, and was no longer fighting his urge to blast a hole through the wall and flee. The balcony window was looking mightily tempting, though.

“Were you going to hit him?” Bulma asked, slipping her phone from her tiny purse.

“Probably,” he admitted with a shrug. “But it still wouldn’t have hurt as much as what you did to him.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to but he forced my hand,” she sighed, lifting the phone to her ear. She gestured to the food on the sideboard. “Get something to eat, honey. I figured we’d end up in here a few times before the end of the night and thought you’d want some real food. I know you don’t like crowds.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing first at her and then at the table. She’d laid on a spread of familiar favourites, things she knew he liked and that, come to think of it, wouldn’t have fit the elegant theme she’d achieved in the rest of the house. Bulma was talking to the babysitter, so he helped himself to a plate. There was a small dining table and a couple of couches too, and Vegeta felt his face flush as he realised that she’d arranged this restricted area solely as a place for him to recharge his batteries throughout the night; they’d never discussed it, but he had never been able to hide how uncomfortable crowds made him.

“...Great, and was Trunks polite? Oh good. That makes a nice change…”

He stared at her, silhouetted against the the backdrop of a foreign moonlit sky, the low light in the room picking up the shimmer of her dress. She was effortlessly elegant, as in-control and capable in a ball gown as she was in grease-stained overalls, and again he was in awe of her. That such a person existed consistently baffled him; her body was so weak and yet she was innately powerful. Sometimes he forgot how much she impressed him, but it was moments like this, when he could see nothing but her, that really brought it home to him.

“Bulma,” he whispered, sliding up behind her as she was ending her phone call. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her against him, nuzzling her neck. She smiled and tipped her head back, her soft hair brushing his face, sighing contentedly.

“Yes, Vegeta?”

“I love you,” he muttered as quietly as he could while still being heard.

She didn’t reply immediately, but she chuckled, low and deep, with satisfaction. She adjusted their positions so that she was facing him.

“Of course you do,” she said finally, “why wouldn’t you?”

He kissed her deeply and with fervour, a kiss she returned in kind.

“Why don’t I fly us out of here and we go somewhere private?” he offered.

“This is private, the door has a lock,” she pointed out, pecking his lips.

“You won’t rate its privacy when the other humans hear the noises you’re going to make,” he growled, grasping her tighter. He could smell her arousal.

“You’re playing dirty,” she replied with a happy shudder, “but I’m not having you ruin this dress before dessert is even out.”

“Fine,” he acceded, though not letting her go, “but when this party is over I’m going to remind you ‘what sort of quality Bulma Briefs demands’.”

“You’d fucking better,” she grinned, “because I’ve gone to a lot of effort to keep you from running away tonight - effort you’d better appreciate.”

He kissed her in lieu of a response. He’d already uttered the dreaded l-word that evening, she wasn’t getting a ‘thank you’ as well.

“Well I guess I’d better eat some food then seeing as you’re not gonna let me eat yo-”

“Vegeta!”

“Your guests, I was going to say your guests.”

He grinned wolfishly at her as he retreated towards his plate, taking care to avoid getting stains on his clothes.

“I love you too, Vegeta,” she said, watching him eat with curious fondness.

He looked about the room, at himself, at her and especially at the food.

 _Of course you do,_ he thought, and for once he smiled back.

 

_*_

_Le Fin_

*

_Pour Xebonystar, merci beaucoup ma cherie_

_*_


End file.
